


The Art of Breaking

by Patroie



Series: Of Foxes and Nightingales [1]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Angst, Bonding, Canon Compliant, Gen, discussion of emotions, set post FV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26951053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patroie/pseuds/Patroie
Summary: When he had made the proposition of apprenticeship to the young, curious PC he had met ghost-hunting in Covent Garden, he had been under the impression that he would be the only change to his life for the foreseeable future. But instead of gaining one apprentice, he suddenly found himself with three – even if one of them turned her back on them quite unexpectedly.Abigail Kamara had been an unintentional addition to his life, and to the Folly as a constitution, but one to which he did not object and which had turned out to bring joy into his life again.One that brought him closer to understanding the allure of parenthood.- or, even though Thomas is struggling with his past, he can still help those around him in need of it
Relationships: Abigail Kamara & Thomas Nightingale
Series: Of Foxes and Nightingales [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983677
Comments: 7
Kudos: 46





	The Art of Breaking

_Let everything  
Happen to you  
Beauty and Terror  
Just keep going  
No feeling is final  
\- Rainer Maria Rilke_

Thomas Nightingale had never been a father. Even when, at a younger age, he had entertained the notion of having children of his own, in some strange, parallel universe in which such a thing was possible – much like the world in which he now lived – it had not been because he had necessarily wanted them himself but because he had always thought it was something he _ought_ to desire. David had always been the one out of the two of them who had wanted to build a family in the traditional sense, who wanted children he could call his own, and the struggle caused by it had been enough to permanently put Thomas off the idea.

He had been put in charge of children, from time to time, as one tended to be subjected to this kind of favour once a certain age had been reached, minding his nieces and nephews, or the children of the friends he had made at Casterbrook, but at the end of the day – or rather of the night, on most occasions – he had been able to hand them back to their parents, be rid of them for the time being. Thanks to his travels there had never been the opportunity for him to see a child regularly, and develop a sense of responsibility for them, experience their development in smaller steps than those of visits several months apart. He had been Uncle Thomas, who brought gifts from the strange and far-away places he visited for work, not Uncle Thomas, who one could trust and rely on to always be there. Thomas had loved his godchildren, but he had so seldomly seen them that they might as well have been strangers.

When he had made the proposition of apprenticeship to the young, curious PC he had met ghost-hunting in Covent Garden, he had been under the impression that he would be the only change to his life for the foreseeable future. But instead of gaining one apprentice, he suddenly found himself with three – even if one of them turned her back on them quite unexpectedly.

Abigail Kamara had been an unintentional addition to his life, and to the Folly as a constitution, but one to which he did not object and which had turned out to bring joy into his life again. Experience had taught, for generations, that it was easier to educate an apprentice who had started his studies at a younger age, and while Abigail would not be inducted into the actual practice of magic until she had reached adulthood, Thomas did not hesitate to go full force on her when it came to the languages and readings adjacent to the craft. And Abigail excelled in them, progressing at a quicker pace than Thomas could have ever imagined to achieve with someone he could only meet at irregular intervals.

Naturally there was her Latin education at school to attribute to Abigail’s success, but he doubted that normal students working towards their GCSEs were able to translate Ovid without any struggle. Curious, determined and not as easily distracted as her cousin she was a joy to have as a student, and Thomas found himself looking forward to their weekly sessions.

Considering her academic achievements it was, at times, easy for Thomas to forget Abigail’s unfortunate home life, the brother who spent more time at the hospital than home, and parents that were too busy worrying about their sick child, and working to provide for their family, to give much attention to the child that required less work than could be expected of any teenager her age.

She had never volunteered more information about her family life, her brother’s illness and her parents than what was strictly necessary – Thomas had, of course, met her parents, anything else would have been irresponsible of both them and him – and he had decided not to pry. Who could blame her if she wanted to create a space that was free of a situation that, in all probability, brought her an immeasurable amount of pain.

So, when Abigail was to be found at the breakfast table on days when she had no reason to be at the Folly, other than that she would have been alone at home, he did not comment on it, nor on the dark circles under her red eyes. And while she had never mentioned it, he knew that she appreciated his discretion. Naturally he kept an eye on her on those days, called Peter’s mother to make sure that she had arrived home from school safely and at an appropriate time, but all these actions were done quietly, so she wouldn’t notice that he cared. Likewise she did not mention when he had night terrors severe enough to hunt him far into the day, obvious enough for someone as observant as Abigail to pick up on.

It seemed like a mutually beneficial arrangement, that, while never put to paper, or indeed spoken aloud at all, should not be put into jeopardy.

Until he came upon her in the mundane library one night, long after she _should_ have gone to bed – from his own time at that age he knew that any adult believing that any child was obeying that rule was lying to themselves – curled up on one of the armchairs, chin resting on her knees, crying in the dark.

He offered her his handkerchief, freshly washed and pressed, complete with his monogram embroidered on it, kept in an inside pocket of his jacket for this very purpose, which she gladly accepted, furiously wiping away her tears, as if they threatened to burn her skin if she allowed her weakness to show for any longer.

Thomas gave her time to compose herself, listened patiently as her sobs became quieter, slowly ebbing away, until all that could be heard was her unsteady breathing, louder than it normally was.

“Paul is having surgery tonight,” she told him, twisting the handkerchief around her fingers, the crisp white a stark contrast against the colour of her skin, “and it’s a long one. Mum and Dad said I shouldn’t worry about it, because it’s only supposed to be a routine procedure, but they are both at the hospital – and Dad switched shift so he could be there – so I know it’s bad”

“Have you tried to get some rest? You must be exhausted”

“Can’t sleep”

“I see” Had it been him, in the knowledge that one of his siblings was undergoing surgery he would not have been able to either – there had in fact been many nights spent awake over the course of his life, full of worry concerning one family member or another, and he knew that his eldest sister had struggled especially with this fate during the years of the war, with everyone she loved constantly risking their lives at the front – and she had been founded in her worries, in the end.

"Sometimes I just want it to be over," she said, quietly, "I know that makes me a horrible person"

“Why would you ever think that? It is one of the most natural things in the world to want suffering to end. It is not a sign of weakness or contempt, but one of compassion”

“Even if, for suffering to end, my brother has to die? How does that not make me a monster?”

“Abigail, not our thoughts determine what sort of person we are, but our actions and intentions. No one can blame you for wanting to return to a time in your life which was not overshadowed by your brother’s illness.”

“I can’t _remember_ a time at which it has not been like this. Paul has always been ill, constantly in and out of the hospital, Mum fretting over him and Dad busy with work. And I don’t hate him, he’s my brother, of course I don’t, I could never hate him, but I just want it all to be _over_."

"Have you talked to your parents about this?"

Abigail made a choking sound. "Of course not. How I feel isn't important. They have enough on their plates as it is, they shouldn’t have to worry about me as well. I am old enough to take care of myself"

It was a mindset which he recognised as eerily similar to his own. That the comfort and well-being of others came first, no matter the personal cost, and that admitting one’s suffering was the worst thing one could do. During the war it had kept him going, had kept him from breaking apart after each blow which life dealt him, but, at it’s core, it was an unhealthy way to life in the long term – or so his therapist had told him. One which he suspected would bring Abigail a great deal more suffering over the course of her life than was necessary.

“You might have reached an age at which you no longer need your parents to cook for you, and to put you to bed, but that does not mean that you no longer need them at all. We always need people, it’s an intrinsic part of human nature. Just as much as the need to process and experience emotions, instead of denying ourselves the time our mind needs to heal from things. For a long time I tried to shut it all away. To put my feelings into a box and bury it so deep within my mind that I might eventually forget that they exist at all. I thought that if I pretended as if I was alright, if the world around me believed that I was, that that would be enough. That if I could fool others I would eventually be able to fool myself. I tried to kill the feelings inside of me, kill the pain and the hurt and the misery. And for a time it might have even worked. I wasn’t happy, but I also wasn’t eternally miserable. All I felt was emptiness, a gaping hole where my heart had once been. Where all the joy and happiness I had ever experienced had once been. But the truth is, during that time I didn’t _live_. All I did was shut myself away, and eventually there came a point when I could no longer hold it all back, when the pain I had denied myself to feel swept over me, all at once, until I could no longer breathe for the lack of anything good in my life,” he looked up at Abigail, still holding his handkerchief in her hand, now properly folded again, posture straight and attentive, as if this was a lesson on Latin grammar, “Your life is yours to live however you want, and I am by far not the person one should go to on these matters, but don’t do that to yourself. If there is one thing you will do for me in your life, it is this. It will only make matters worse. Don’t hide your pain, not from yourself, or from others. Every once in a while the walls we have to build to keep ourselves standing crack a little, and that is perfectly fine. There is strength in permitting yourself to be weak. It will not make the pain disappear forever, nothing will, and you will carry your brother and his struggles with you for the rest of your life, but that does not mean that it will forever be as painful as it is right now. You will learn to live with the pain, learn to carry it with you, but do not let it hold you back. It will become easier, given time, but first you must allow it to hurt, so one day you will be able to look back on this and remember the good times, the joy and happiness that exists alongside the pain. Right now, at this moment in time, you are _searching your soul for joy but joy is gone_. It will get better, I promise you. We are here for you, Abigail, for you to lean on us, rely on us. Peter, Beverley, Molly and I are here to support you, no matter what happens. Allow yourself to feel that pain, that weakness, and truly _live_. You are not a burden, Abigail, not to your parents and not to us. You are loved. More than you know”

He had barely finished speaking when he found himself with an armful of child, her hair pressing against his chin and cheek as she buried her face in his shoulder. Carefully Thomas wrapped his arms around her, held her as the fabric of his shirt began to feel suspiciously clingy.

Thomas couldn’t remember the last time he had been hugged.

“You can break too, you know,” Abigail said after a long while, slowly letting go of him and stepping back to a respectable distance, one he was much more comfortable and acquainted with. “Me and Peter are here for you. And Molly and Dr Walid”

“That is very kind of you to say, Abigail”

“It’s just the truth”

But sometimes the truth was a dangerous, tempting thing, that should not be acknowledged. The truth was also that while Peter indubitably cared about him, at the same time he would not be able to stomach seeing Thomas at his worst – no one would and still be able to look him in the eye again.

“You’re a hypocrite,” Abigail said in a tone that showed quite clearly that she knew that, had she said this to any other adult she would be punished or reprimanded, but that he would not do so.

“Pardon me?” It happened more frequently, nowadays, that people dared to question his decisions and his behaviour, something which Thomas, truth be told, found quite refreshing. There had been a time when no one would have dared to question the Nightingale, no one but his superiors, if he went against their wishes. That there were people who cared enough to call out his mistakes, in the hopes that he would put in an effort to fix them.

“You are doing it just now – denying yourself the very thing you told me to do. Holding yourself to a different standard than the rest of us. But you are just as human as the rest of us, and you can show that from time to time”

“I will admit that I am not well practised in the art of breaking, and that there are decades of learned behaviour to rewrite, but I shall try, if you insist on it” He had, over the course of his life, never truly allowed himself to break. To take time to he needed to grief, with no restrictions, to suffer through the pain so he could heal in a proper manner. Instead he had given himself reasons to keep on going, other people that had needed his support or guidance. The chaps, who couldn’t have the image they had conjured up of him be destroyed, and Molly, for whom he had forced himself to stay at the Folly. _If the Nightingale can take it then so can I_.

Just that he hadn’t been, and none of them should ever have been, none of them should have felt as if they had to be alright after what had happened to them, after what they had seen and lived through for five years. Shell shock, they had called it, war fatigue. A thing that should never be discussed in mixed company, if at all. Nothing an attitude of stiff upper lip couldn’t get a good chap through.

Abdul had been the first to suggest that Thomas should seek therapy, but at the time no one would have been able to convince him that such a step would be beneficial for him. He had known men who had been treated with electroshock therapy, and would do his damnedest to not be subjected to it himself. Only when the topic had become relevant on Peter's behalf had it occurred to him that, even though decades had past, he would still greatly benefit from therapy, as it was done in this modern day and age.

“I rather think I do insist,” Abigail said, modelling her speech pattern after his own, but layering it with a pretentious undertone. Mocking him, Thomas realised, but in good nature. Long gone were the times when children had respected their elders purely on the merit of their age, and the youth of this day was not afraid to point out the faults in those who had come before them.

“In that case I shall do my very best. Now, how would you like to pass the rest of the night?”

“You’ll stay up with me?”

“Quite.” He would never knowingly leave someone in distress to their own devices, not if there was something he could do to lift the burden, make it less severe. Give Abigail the knowledge that she was not alone, that she never _would_ be alone. That she had a family, albeit it be not by blood in some cases, that cared for her.

Thomas Nightingale had never fathered a child, but that did not mean that he was not a father. 

**Author's Note:**

> _searching your soul for joy but joy is gone_
> 
> from the Eumenides by Aeschylus, beautiful out of context, infuriating in it.  
> (and we'll have to give some leeway on the wording, bc Nightingale would have read the text in Ancient Greek, and not the translation by Robert Fagles that is happily residing on my shelf)


End file.
